Chapter 6 – The Maw of the Rift
At first glance, the camp looked ordinary.
Tents were scattered around a fire pit, smoke curling lazily into the sky. Makeshift walls of stacked debris ringed the perimeter. From afar, it resembled any other survivor outpost—ragged but alive. A banner made from torn bedsheets fluttered overhead, painted with crude symbols.
But Andrew's skin prickled the moment they approached.
"Something's wrong," he muttered.
Clara nodded. "I feel it too. Mana's… twisted here."
A woman stepped out from behind the gate. She was tall, her presence calm but unnerving. Dirty blonde hair tied back, her clothes practical and clean—but her eyes? Too calm. Too still.
"Welcome," she said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You're safe now. Come. Rest."
Andrew's grip on his weapon tightened.
"Name's Linda," she added. "You two look like you've been through hell."
He didn't answer. Clara forced a tight smile. "We've been walking for a while. Fighting monsters."
"Monsters," Linda echoed, voice full of something between amusement and hunger. "Yes. So many of those lately."
Andrew's gaze flicked past her. He saw shadows moving behind the tents. Not monsters. Not animals.
People. Watching.
Waiting.
His eyes narrowed. "How many people are here?"
"Enough," Linda said sweetly. "Enough to keep you safe. Come in. You'll find we take care of our own…"
Andrew didn't move.
Neither did Clara.
Because deep inside, they already knew.
This wasn't a haven.
It was a slaughterhouse.
---
Andrew didn't trust her smile. He didn't trust the stillness of the camp or the way the people behind the tents were watching without revealing themselves.
But he nodded anyway.
"…Thanks," he said, voice neutral.
Clara glanced sideways at him, catching the slight twitch in his hand as he formed the smallest of gestures—just enough to summon a Dark Minion, no more than the size of a grapefruit, from the shadows under his coat.
It blinked into existence silently. Then slipped away into the nearest tent's shade, unseen.
They followed Linda deeper inside the camp.
Dozens of tents. Crude structures made from car parts and tarp. A few children ran past them barefoot—laughing, but something in their eyes was… off. Vacant. The adults smiled too much. They greeted Clara and Andrew with open arms, like they'd known them for years.
But none of the warmth reached their eyes.
Clara whispered without turning her head, "Creepy."
Andrew didn't answer. He was listening to his Minion's second sight, watching from the shadows.
It darted silently beneath the fabric of a nearby tent. Inside was a cage.
A man sat huddled inside, stripped naked, bloodied. His mouth was gagged, and his eyes were swollen shut. Beside him—bones. Picked clean. Some still fresh.
Andrew's expression didn't change. But his jaw clenched.
The Minion moved again, slithering between tents, weaving through garbage and bloodstained blankets.
Another tent. This one had weapons—dozens of them. Rusty machetes, axes, spears. All caked in dried blood. A row of heads—actual heads—were placed on crude spikes at the back wall like trophies.
He felt his pulse quicken. Not from fear. From disgust.
Linda led them to a firepit where several "survivors" sat, roasting meat on skewers. The scent was strong—almost sweet. Too sweet.
Clara's eyes flicked toward the fire.
She paled.
That… wasn't boar meat.
Linda smiled again. "Hungry?"
Andrew sat down slowly. "Starving."
He made a show of wiping his hands.
But behind the stillness of his face, behind the casual calm in his voice—his minion showed him everything. Every hidden cage, every tortured prisoner, every bloodstained tool.
This wasn't a camp.
It was a feeding ground.
And they were next on the menu.
The skewer hovered just inches from Clara's mouth.
She stared at it like it was a loaded gun.
"It's fresh," Linda coaxed. "We had a hunter bring it in this morning. You need your strength—both of you. You've been walking, haven't you?"
Clara forced a smile. "I'm not really hungry."
There was a pause. Just long enough to feel unnatural.
Linda's smile stiffened. "Oh? You sure?"
Clara nodded. "I don't eat meat often."
Andrew reached forward, casually plucking a skewer from the rack and blowing on it. "I'll take hers."
Linda relaxed instantly. "Good boy."
Clara shot him a sharp look, but he gave the tiniest nod—just enough for her to see.
He was playing along.
He brought the meat to his lips. Opened his mouth.
Then, just before contact, a thin film of shadow slid across his teeth—black as ink, invisible in the flickering firelight. The moment the meat touched his tongue, it didn't stay.
It vanished—slipping through the veil of his shadow, transported directly into his Shadow Box.
Not a single particle touched him. Even the oils were drawn away.
To any observer, he had taken a slow, thoughtful bite.
He chewed the air behind his hand and swallowed with a satisfied nod.
"Not bad."
Linda clapped lightly. "See? I told you."
But Andrew wasn't listening to her.
His second Dark Minion had slithered into the rusted bunker behind the camp. The place was disgusting—an underground sanctum lined with flesh-stitched curtains and altar stones smeared in blood.
At its center sat a desk. On it, crude screens flickered with grainy black-and-white footage of the camp.
And hunched over it…
Buzzsaw.
Steve.
His eyes gleamed in the darkness, madness woven into every wrinkle of his face. He held a small silver vial between his fingers, swirling it slowly like a glass of wine.
"Takes about ten minutes," he muttered to himself, watching the feed of Andrew biting into the meat. "Big one's cautious… but they always fall. Can't resist the Meatbinder's pull. Not after a taste…"
He chuckled softly, pacing.
"Then the girl… fire mage, probably. Pretty thing. Shame to waste her. But the Rift God needs gifts."
He didn't see the soft shift of shadow above him. Didn't notice the second minion nesting just behind a dangling skull ornament, eyes glowing faintly.
Andrew saw everything.
The toxin. The cameras. The kill orders written in blood. And the timer Steve had set for the guards to "collect the guests" in twelve minutes.
Andrew's expression didn't change.
He turned to Clara and leaned in slightly. "Think I'm getting sleepy," he murmured, just loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.
Clara played along instantly. "Already? You're such a lightweight," she said, rolling her eyes.
Linda grinned. "There's a tent prepared for you two. Private, warm, and clean. You can rest there until tomorrow."
Andrew stretched his arms lazily. "Perfect."
But behind his tired eyes, in the depths of his mind, a different thought burned.
Ten minutes left until they make their move.
Ten minutes until the monsters try to eat the wolves.